


Let it be, let it be

by captainhurricane



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: 2nd Person, Gen, kind of experimental style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 22:56:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1835290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainhurricane/pseuds/captainhurricane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kazuhira Miller; from battlefields to Alaska, through rage and snakes and the screaming of seagulls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let it be, let it be

**Author's Note:**

> i am furiously channelling my own feelings through fictional characters so here you go. (also trying to write something other than porn). Do comment if you read!

Over the years, you learn how to drown out the noise. You’re not a man who dreams much but when you do, you push the noise you hear in there, to the fluttering of your eyelashes and the vivid imagery of a past you’d rather not remember. The noise that is your father and your mother, one country and the next, the steady bang of a gunshot until there is just him- just him and his growl in your voice, the fierce fire in the only eye he has left

(Oh, you once did ask about the eyepatch and he merely huffed, one corner of his rough lips quirking up and that should have been an answer enough)

You’re a two-faced fox yourself, of course, yet who here isn’t, who doesn’t have skeletal hands banging at the doors of their minds, the ground reddening with every step they take? The boss himself especially, you don’t know all and you don’t want to know all but the one you’ve chosen to follow has scars deeper than the ones you can see on his rough skin even if his hands weren’t red with all the blood that was spilt. Give it back! You yell and shake his shoulders but he stares through you, mouth open like instead of you and the steady noise of Morpho around you, he can only see the fire that swallowed their nation, their soldiers, their life and pride and spit it back up into the ocean.

And all men know the ocean does not give back.

More fire, more explosions, screams and shouting and crippling pain (you learn how to drown out all of that because in too deep and you’ll find that picking up the pieces of yourself isn’t so easy), the snake, your snake with his tail curled around the world has gone to sleep and you take the necessary steps for the day when he awakens because you too remember your nation without borders, your soldiers who looked upon you and the boss with a shine in their eyes. They would have died for you and they did.

You plan, you sneak and you gather the survivors, the fallen. You gather funds and you gather the one with a silver tongue and red gloves. You don’t get along at first, not really. He knew your boss (it’s always boss or Snake, never John, never Jack except maybe when it’s dark and no one has to know) before you did, before the silver tongue, the cat predator with a quick grin and even a quicker draw was the way he was and when he was still young and foolish and the Snake (your Snake) knew how to smile at things like that.

It’s really not surprising that you are not there when Snake wakes up from his nine-year dream. You had made yourself a threat; you and the silver tongue with quick grin and a quick draw

(You had become almost friends, you bickered and bantered like brothers but at some point you realized this one has your back, this one would kill for you and your boss)

The days and weeks (months?) vanish because you are trained to pain, to torture but you are still a human man; Kazuhira Miller, you whisper to yourself when the fires burn and the soldiers near you talk and laugh like this was all a joke to them, Kazuhira Miller, you whisper, I’m Kazuhira Miller and I will survive; and eventually your whispers turn into screams, then into sobs, then broken, horrified silence when they took your arm, when they took your leg, when they threatened to took the rest and say we don’t need information from you, no hard feelings, this is nothing personal, you merely allied yourself with the wrong people and you only let yourself shed a tear when you’re left alone in the dark and the cold, the handcuff digging into your remaining wrist.

You think of him as a hallucination as first, because you hadn’t heard that voice in years, seen that same, stern frown after remaining by his bedside and finding yourself scared because that prone, silent figure couldn’t be the same man, just couldn’t-

Snake? Your voice is barely audible, your throat scratchy. He touches your face with odd gentleness, voice quiet and kinda even when you know the gunshots in the dark were all him, that he would stomp over corpses as long as it go to where he wanted to go. He pushes your sunglasses back to your face and releases your remaining limbs. You blink at his blurry figure, the breeze making his coat flap, the only light in the darkness being moonlight reflected on his prosthetic. The dry, heavy air has settled onto your skin, into your nose and it takes all you have not to cough and give it away that all is not as it seems. He throws you over his shoulders like you weigh nothing, his breath running hard and his hands cold and strong. I’m gonna get you out of here, he murmurs, again with that awful gentleness that doesn’t belong to a snake like him- and because you want to claw at his back and sob and scream- with rage or grief or delight, you don’t know and those three have been mixed up in you for a while anyway so who knows.

It’s all a blur, isn’t it. The journey, the steady tsak, tsak, tsak of the Morpho around you and the pilot speaking and Snake’s rough fingers on your face, saying Kaz, Kaz, it’s gonna be fine (his only eye is so very cold) even when your anger- yours and his and who knows what your revolver-wielding silver tongue thinks- is going to break the world that broke you.

So you shut off the noise of the world, of the screams that turn into sobs, of laughter and grief and sex, you wake up from nightmares into the heavy silence of your new base and feel throbbing pain from where your limbs used to be. It’s easier. It’s easier.

Years pass. Anger passes. The snake that swallowed that world has swallowed you too and you leave, go and call him a monster and he looks at you like he doesn’t recognize you anymore. You and me, he says and doesn’t touch you and somehow that hurts you more than anything. A monster, you spit on his face and disappear to other soldiers- to nations that have borders, to nations that were there before your own, to other soldiers like the twin Snakes, like the one with the same fiery rage as his father (but never that deep, no, this one will never know the same deep scars) and the one with silence as heavy as his father’s. You meet with your silver tongue once again and he mocks your limp with a grief-filled twist to his cruel thin mouth and you mock his moustache and the same red gloves with your eyes always hidden behind your glasses, phantom pain throbbing where your limbs used to be. You meet your silver tongue again. You don’t meet your snake again but you hear of him, hear of his passing but not his resurrection.

You die with a gasp and a whimper and no one ever knows who pulled the trigger. (You don’t live to see the graveyard and white flowers, the men that are snakes face to face with each other, your Snake with his old shoulders heavy with weight that only death will take away, the young Snake, the one who ended up being the one carrying light inside him even in war, with a grim expression but understanding, finally understanding. You would have understood too and maybe you did, at some point.)

It wasn’t worth it. The world may have needed your kind once, your nation without borders, your Outer Heaven but not this time. The world didn’t need you to change things, the world needed you to let it be.


End file.
